


.:Part One:.

by Lord_Of_Dorks



Series: Devout Au [1]
Category: markiplier - Fandom
Genre: Blood, Devout AU, Gods, Host!, I created an au by accident, Markiplier - Freeform, Markiplier egos - Freeform, and Jims, light gore, other egos too, plenty of Jims, seraphs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-18
Updated: 2018-05-18
Packaged: 2019-05-08 11:22:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,842
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14693168
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lord_Of_Dorks/pseuds/Lord_Of_Dorks
Summary: Cast out. Betrayed. Lost. Cursed.Host has fallen from grace, the price for a crime he didn't commit steep.He recalls his tale to Jim, a curious blogger who can't seem to keep himself out of trouble.But when his tale is told, will Host ever regain what he's lost?Or will he die trying?





	.:Part One:.

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to a crazy universe I created but accident and then had to write storyline for.  
> This the roller coaster called the Devout Au.  
> My writing isn't the best but, I hope you'll enjoy none the less.  
> -L.o.D

Part One: The Nephilim

_There were rumours of an angel, who disguised himself as a man. They say he lives humbly among the people of the chapel on the edge of the woodlands. They say he’s been blinded and cast from the Heavens. Well, those stories hold a small fleck of truth, here and there. This is the story of a creature, cast out of his home, wounded, and awoken to a harsh truth._

The Host smiled softly, hands hovering paused over his braille typewriter. His thoughts wandering to the whispered conversations he couldn’t help but overhear, the stories they created amused him. Many of them about himself, of course. Morning was slowly breaking over the horizon, fuzzy orange light streaming lazily through the curtains, faintly yellowed with age. He sighed, narrating his surroundings and morning routine for work. The priest carefully plucked his overcoat from the coat rack and his cane from its faithful resting place beside the door. Rosary beads jingled merrily from their place tied to his beloved as he locked his door and made his way down the stairs.

The sanctuary was busy, people rushing to and fro like a beehive, it reminded Host of home. The scent of fresh cut flowers and calming lemongrass incense assaulted his nose as he stepped further inside. People tended to notice his presence, yet pay him no mind as they worked before Mass, and in turn he strayed out of their way as best as possible. The nuns cast him a grateful smile as he helped hang a wreath of Vervain on one of the pillars around the room. He returned their smile, if only for a moment before he went on his way. Passing rows of pews, the podium stairs, and continuing on past the pool of blessed water to a winding spiral staircase, he huffed; He hated having so many steps to climb, but his Sight assisted him enough that he trusted himself not to fall. His hand gliding along the banister until he reached his destination. The organ lied in a soundless beauty, and he shuffled over to its bench. With a small plop, he got himself situated and ready for his cue during Mass.

/////

The whispering was happening again below himself after Mass, his narrating a hushed mumble as he waited for straggling churchgoers to disperse. He had come to dislike them after his first few days working, too many questions spewed from their mouths. Those who worked in the church with him he didn’t mind, they never asked, never needed too. They accepted him as he was with open arms, the thought warmed his heart. Laughter bubbled up from somewhere below, dragging him from his thoughts. Out of curiosity he leaned just enough to use his Sight to peek over the railing that hid him, to the sprawling floor below. A small group of young men and a woman stood chatting idly, until one man noticed they were being watched, and glanced up. The man gaped like a fish at the sight of Host, who quietly narrated that he’d been spotted. He attempted to back away from the railing without drawing anymore attention, but a small uproar was already reaching his ears.

“Did you see that!?” The man’s voice was loud, ringing against the air sharply. His friends only stared, confused at his outburst, seeing excitement gleaming in his eyes.

“See what, Jim? Are you pulling a crazy story stunt again?” The woman sighed, exasperated.

“No, what? No! I promise. It’s just…” He glanced up at the organ looming above. “At the railing, I thought I’d finally caught a glimpse of the rumoured ‘Church Ghost’ that I’ve overheard from the other churchgoers. I wonder if I can find out more about him. What’s his story? Why are there so many rumours circling him?” Jim half rambled, rushed, lost to thought.

“Whatever, dude. You do you, we’re headed home. Don’t hurt yourself with your ‘ghost hunting’, alright?” They chuckled at him and his antics. With eyes rolling they left their friend standing in the pews. Jim thought it best to sit down if he was to focus, thoughts flying past each other like bullet trains at full speed. Though that proved futile in the end, as a nun bustled into the Chapel hall. Her stride sure and determined, as she stopped just below the organ.

“Host? Are you still up there? Host!” She called, her tone slightly impatient. Jim watched silently, intrigue and curiosity forcing him still. As if he were invisible, he watched where the creature was; or where he thought it was. A heavy sigh from above broke the silence, it was soon followed by the faint sound of tapping descending metal stairs somewhere nearby. Then it spoke.

“The Host is here… What is the message the young sister has brought to him?” He asked softly, stepping fully out of the deeply shadowed alcove hiding the stairs, and into view.

“The Head Priest and Mother Superior are looking for you, Host. They asked me to fetch you.” She smiled warmly at him, offering a hand to help guide him down the short podium steps.  
“The Host is grateful to the sister for the message and her assistance.” He took her hand, allowing himself to be guided, robes training behind himself on the steps. He was truly grateful, even if he didn’t quite need the help at all, really. He felt the man’s curious eyes upon him, the feeling made his skin crawl, but he paid it no mind as they left the Chapel hall with Sister Ashley in silence. Leaving Jim to his stunned silence and marathonning thoughts.

/////

The moment Jim got home, he scrambled for his laptop. He’s heard rumours of a ghost; What he’d witnessed however, was definitely not a ghost. After a fruitless search for more information, Jim decided he’d make a post on his blog about it. Surely someone would know something, have a story to share, and just about anything in general would help. His followers were surprisingly good at digging up info he’d had issues finding, almost eerily so. He glanced up, eyes searching for his notebook and pen, needing to put his whirlwind of thoughts down on paper. Notebook sighted on his kitchen counter, he lunged from the couch in pursuit of it, as is it would escape his grasp at any moment. The laptop merrily chirped with notifications, as he returned to the seat, where he flopped haphazardly. Pulling the laptop closer, he found someone had responded, though the words he read only baffled him further.

“They say he’s an angel cast from the Heavens. Quiet, reserved, mysterious in his ways. They say he was found by a nun draped over the church steps, blood everywhere, broken feathers drifting into the open air. People claim this as hogwash, I believe it is. There is also the rumours for the ‘Church Ghost’ as you called him… Although the fact that the organ player died years ago, and now suddenly it’s playing during Mass again, and no one has seen the new player? That’s what seems the most suspicious to me, Jim. But good luck with your mystery!” -Anonymous

Jim sighed heavily, that answer wasn’t as helpful as he’d hoped; Yet the information about the organ player intrigued him. Motivated, he decided that he’d look through the internet again and if that didn’t work, he’d go ask the church directly.

/////

Host was humming softly as he worked in the archives, the strong smell of paper and ink a comfort. The Head Priest and Mother Superior had gotten on his case the day before, Mother Superior mostly. She worried about him often, because of his… habits. Rarely ate, occasionally slept, was usually found working. He chuckled lightly to himself, she always seemed to forget he wasn’t quite human, part of him was still an angel, cursed or not. He shook his head lightly, tapping over to the shelf out of habit. Hidden deep within the shelves, his hand glided along book spines,until he came upon the one he needed. Its worn cover rough beneath his fingers, but familiar in its weight against his palm. Carefully he flipped it open to the most current page and placed a freshly typed new page within it. Everyday the volume slowly grew, Host filling its pages with redone numbers, names, and documents. He enjoyed the work, it kept him busy, on top of being quite relaxing.

The door swung open on creaking hinges that wailed with the arrival of someone entering Host’s nest of shelves. He wondered if he should get the door fixed for the thousandth time,when voices reached him. He cursed softly, beginning to narrate to help him access if he wanted to make himself known to the newcomers or not.

“I’m not sure that our archivist is in right now… If he is, well, it’s likely that he’ll find you before you find him.” The nun spoke cheerily.

“No offence, Sister. But that sounded eerily ominous.” A male voice responded, which earned a light hearted laugh from the Sister.

Host quietly shuffled back, letting the shelves shelter him further. The Sister he could trust. The other, however, he was wary of. As the door pulled shut, his hushed narrating revealed the man still sat in the middle of the room, observing as much as he could. Host crept through the shelves, his Sight providing a name for the man, as Jim neared his work desk. Curious hands reaching out to brush against Host’s typewriter, he bristled, voice carrying like a chill through the air.

“The Host recommends you don’t do that, he isn’t fond of those who mess with his things.” His beads clicked merrily to the tap of his cane on the floor as he drew nearer.

“I… Uh, sorry?” Jim whipped around quickly, almost knocking in to the table. His eyes wide, as he searched for the voice’s owner. Who he found leaning leisurely against a shelf end, arms crossed, eyebrow raised in question and silent judgement. Jim froze, the archivist wasn’t who he’d thought it would be.

“The Host accepts Jim’s apology, yet he wonders why Jim is here.” The Host moving from his place in the shelves toward his chair with practiced ease. Jim shuffled out of his way quickly, Host had to hold back his laugh. He sometimes forgot that that he was ‘blind’ to the masses, yet his Sight allowed him to see just fine when need be, maybe to well.

Jim realized he still needed to give an answer, and his words stumbled as his brain attempted to process the current events before it. Before him now sat a man, at least he thought it was a man, yet definitely not a ghost. It… He had spoken, he somehow knew Jim’s name, he was blind, and he seemed to have a habit of speaking in the third person. With shock fading from his system, Jim took a breath before speaking.

“I, uhm.. I came here for information, Father?” Jim questioned the use of the title but he was guessing based off how Host was dressed. Host let a small chuckle slip.

“Just Host, Host is an honorary priest, thus ‘Father’ is not a title he claims.” Host explained softly. “Now, the Host guesses that Jim came regarding information on Host himself, due to rumour and curiosity. So, the Host will ask only this; What will you do with the information if the Host gives it to you?” Host seemed to be staring directly into Jim’s eyes, and if he wasn’t wearing the bandages, Jim was almost completely sure his stare would be piercing. Jim shivered out of reflex.

“If you’re willing to tell me information, Host. I promise not to write anything about it. Honestly, I’m just curious about why you’re here, and to why no one knows about you…” Jim answered sheepishly. Host leaned back in his chair, humming in thought.

“The Host has decided to tell you a story. A tale of brothers and a betrayal, of the past or maybe the present.. A fable in which you may choose what to believe.” Host shrugged lightly. Then adjusted in his overly plush armchair, gesturing behind Jim to another. Jim peered behind him only to become somewhat confused, how he'd overlooked the chair before, he’d never know. Cautiously he plopped down into it, as it slowly consumed him in its velvet surface for a moment. Attentive, he glanced back toward the Host who was waiting patiently.  
////

“The Host apologizes if this story becomes long winded, it is quite detailed…” Host gave a flicker of a smile for a second. Folding his hands across his lap, he took a breath, and let his tale spill forth from broken memories.

_Sunrise in the Heavens was always brilliant, morning dew twinkling in a warm orange glow. Pale clouds splattered with faint pink, and the grass long, colourful and gently whispering with wind. The Heavens plane of existence looked over the mortal plane peacefully, some would say lovingly; And Host-- no, Author-- was on his way to the Deity’s Halls. As the Seraph of Stories, he was often fetched to write down the other angels and gods fables. As he climbed the steps toward the Deity’s preferred place of being, halls sprawling out like a palace, or to the unfamiliar, a labyrinth; he happened to pass Dark and Wilford on his little journey. His brothers, elder than him yet not by much by the span of time, he smiled. He decided the Deity wouldn’t mind if he was a tad late, and so he stopped to say hello._

_Author greeted them proudly. Wliford, smiling wide and immediately crushing Author into a tight embrace was his usual quirky way of a hello somedays. Author expected nothing less from the Seraph of Innocence and Madness. Dark acknowledged Author’s presence with his usual sly and somewhat concerning smile. Nothing new with the Seraph of Souls then, Author assumed. They had a lengthy and quiet exchange of words before continuing on their way, Author now rushing up the last few steps and into the halls. Within the courtyard King watched him rush by from the trees with a light laugh, and Author waved a small greeting in return. Cursing himself for losing track of the time as badly as he had, he finally reached the throne room of sorts. He stepped up with grace, and gently knocked against the heavy wood doors. With access granted, they swung open silently, and Author scurried inside. The room sprawled, the cosmos swirling above one’s head, he smiled warmly. The Deity did love space, often speaking whimsically of it. At the touch of something wet against his palm, he glanced down to find Chica. She stood proudly beside him, nudging him toward where the Celestial awaited him. Author followed Chica easily, like habit, she would sometimes appear from nowhere to guide someone. Not just Author, but she often liked him best. Though her favorite was Mark, of course, Author reminded himself with a chuckle._

_“I am here, Sir.” He announced, when the other being came into view. Who scoffed softly._

_“Author, for what seems to be the millionth time. Please, just call me Mark. It’s much simpler, humble, like myself.” Mark smiled. When Chica returned to his side, he placed a wreath of fresh flowers upon her soft, furry crown. She seemed to beam with her gratitude, and leaned against Mark’s legs and chair. Author decided to inhabit his usual place of writing to the Celestials left as he did countless times before. Pulling fresh parchment from his typewriter case, he prepped before he gave a simple nod, a small sign that Mark could begin speaking. Soon the only sounds in the room was the clack of keys, and the melody of the Deity’s resonating voice._

_The passage of time slipped both their minds, the cosmos the only indication any time had elapsed at all. Mark yawned, his speaking slowly wearing him out, Chica already asleep, having crawled into his lap at some point. Author looked up from where he sat, the Deity’s Crown slowly drooping over Mark’s forehead as it’s wearer began to slumber. Author chuckled softly at the sight, beginning to pack up his things once more; this was his cue to leave after all. Chica’s head popped up as the locks of his case snapped shut. She, wagging her tail drowsily, huffed as he gave her a fond smile. Then he was on his way._

_He ran into Bim and the Jim Twins as he reached one of the many courtyards, their words hushed._

_“Brothers, evening.” He greeted them softly._

“Wait, Jim Twins…?!” Jim interrupted suddenly, startling Host.

“Yes..? They are the Seraphs of Mischief, a being split in two. Maybe even three. You remind Host of them.” Host replied softly.

“Oh, thanks? Sorry to interrupt. Please, do continue.” Jim gestured with a nod before remembering; Host was blind. He wanted to slap himself, yet Host just laughed at him.

“The Host will continue his story now.” His voice was hushed. 

_ His brothers softly greeted him back, the twins waving in unison. _

 

_ “Evening, Author.” Bim said in a rush, being the Seraph of Communications he always seemed to be in a hurry. Author gave him a fond smile. Their conversations and rushing lead well into the evening. There was always something to be working on. _

 

_ ///// _

 

_ The meeting was no surprise when it arrived, as the Council gathered on a bi-weekly basis. Nine Seraphs were called to attend as the Deity’s Archangels, but only during meeting days were they to be treated as such. They humbled themselves by all being equal, all Seraphs, until Council days. Mark’s voice carried like thunder as he called attendance from the head of the table. _

 

_ “King, Seraph of Animals. Google, Seraph of Information and Strategy. Dark, Seraph of Souls. Author, Seraph of Stories. Bim, Seraph of Communications. Wilford, Seraph of Innocence and Madness. Jim Twins, Seraphs of Mischief. Bing, Seraph of Humour. Yandere, Seraph of Romance and War.” _

 

_ “All here, your Grace.” King responded, as they took their seats.  _

 

_ “Good to hear. Thank you, King. Now, there is something important we must discuss. Yan has brought in reports of the cherub and guardian class being slaughtered. Our domain’s people as well as the other Gods are restless. The evidence is beginning to pile up. So, we must find out who or what is behind the crimes. Quickly.” Mark was serious, but an undertone of sorrow and bitterness lied within his words. Everyone nodded in agreement, before breaking out into a fight, words being shouted over each other, voices lost on deaf ears. Dark and Bim were arguing, Will was always loud, and Author… Wanted to jump in but it was more amused to watch, as well as annoyed. Mark sighed heavily, and pondered why he even tried.  _

 

_ “Dark.” Mark’s voice silenced the Seraphs easily. “I trust you’ll work with Yan and get to the bottom of this, yes?” _

 

_ “As you wish, Enlightened One.” Was the easy answer, Author could swear there was something off about how he spoke. Something wasn’t sitting right; something about this seemed too simple, but what?  _

_ Author’s swirling thoughts lead him to King’s courtyard afterword. The squirrels, in particular, chittering in excitement at the return of their king-- and now a visitor. Thousands of curious, beady black eyes watching as he passed. And King. Who dropped down in front of Author from the branches, snacking on peanut butter. _

 

_ “Woulb bou lige sumb peanub bubber?” He asked, voice trapped by the sheer amount of the sugary treat he’d shoveled into his maw.  _

 

_ “No, but thank you, King.”  _

 

_ “Whabha pinging boub then? Bou loog more peeriouh ben upual, Aupour.” Flecks of peanut butter flying from his mouth, Author barely avoided him. King had a problem with eating peanut butter; and Wilford had a similar habit of throwing candies at anyone passing by. ‘Maybe that’s why they get along so well’, Author thought to himself. _

 

_ “Something just feels off about this situation.. he agreed so easily; it was almost unnatural of him. You know our brother questions the Deity’s authority every chance he gets-- most days. Makes me wonder if he’s up to something… Ah, sorry King, I’m rambling my thought process again, aren’t I?” Author asked, to which King only nodded with intrigue. The Seraphs, though they may be brothers, rarely spoke to each other much, unless the time was found. Clipped conversations and their jobs kept them busy.  _

 

_ “Aupour, I’m phore ebery ping will bee pine.” King reassured. “We’re brobhers, why woulb family have reason to harm itself?” His voice had cleared up a bit more by the end of his words. _

 

_ “You do have a point.. Thank you, King. You’re right, I shouldn’t worry over needless things that just make me stressed.” Author smiled, and continued on his way. Night in the Heavens was as brilliant as the day, cool colours splashed with pinks, purples and greens, against a sea of rich indigo. Splattered with stars, it’s beauty still filled Author with the inspiration to write. It was like a muse he could call upon when the words he searched for couldn’t be found. A seemingly silent entity, humming with the vibrancy of life.  _

 

_ Yet, peace couldn’t last forever… Could it? _

 

_ ///// _

 

“So, the Author felt something was fishy from the beginning?” Jim’s voice pulled Host back from his void of thought.

 

“Yes, he did. Their brother, Dark, was always sly, and cunning. At the time, he thought he was worrying over nothing. That Dark was just being Dark. Alas, he couldn’t have been more wrong…  His hunch had been right; in the most horrifying way possible.” Host recalled. Jim’s eyes widened with intrigue, curiosity and a swirling fear. 

 

“What happened after that?” Jim finally asked.

 

“Days went by, weeks, progress on their problem slow. And then the Author witnessed something he shouldn’t have. But the memory.. It’s fuzzy, lost... Host has spent months trying to figure it out. All that he can remember is what came after, the trial of the crime…” Host’s head was pounding. The memory fresh; painful.

 

“We can stop if-” Jim’s words were cut off.

 

“No, the Host feels he must finish the tale, by every detail he can recall.” His words seemed to growl. Jim could only nod, as he witnessed a frustrated creature relive it’s broken memories, and continue to speak. Having calmed, Host’s voice filled the room once more, in a slight honeyed tone.

 

_ ///// _

 

_ It was dark, pitch-black, like oozing tar. The Author's memory fuzzy, broken into pieces. How did he end up here? The Deity’s voice boomed in his ears, shocking him into an alert and frightened state. Vision clearing, he could see Mark, a softened, solemn look on his face, and around him stood the rest of the council. Author’s sight landed on his brother, Dark. The look he saw would haunt him forever, burned into his memory like a brand. His poker-face could hide his emotions, but his eyes… His eyes said everything loud and clear, hatred and glee. Dark asked the Deity if he could approach to say good-bye, his request was granted. Dark leaned in close, words hushed so only Author would hear. _

 

_ “You’re going to die, never to be forgiven; for something you didn’t do. I thank you for taking this fall for me, Brother. I’d say I’m sorry… But I’m not.” Dark chuckled softly. “Goodbye, waste of space. I’m pleased to see you gone.” He stepped away, faked anguish and loss plastered to his face. Mark stepped forward. _

 

_ “Author, you are condemned to the mortal plane…” His words became choked, and soft. “You are to be stripped of your wings and your eyes are to be gouged. This is the curse you have placed upon yourself for your crimes.” Author had begun to cry out of reflex and fear at the Celestial’s words. “At dawn tomorrow, it shall be done.” Mark’s words buzzed in his ears, ringing loudly as the hazey black of unconscious bliss took over once more. _

 

_ Next thing he knew, he was being dragged; locked tight in shackles past the domain gates. The twins stopped at the edge overlooking the mortal’s plane below, he looked between them warily, desperately. He was innocent, he knew he was! Yet, the words…  the pleads lie, paralyzed in his throat. The trio was surprised, however, when the Deity and Chica appeared. They never came to these kinds of things, it was usually just the twins doing the job. He had a determined look upon his face, he kneeled where Author sat in a disgruntled heap.  _

 

_ “Author, you have been condemned I can’t change that. Yet, I know you. And something seems off about this, I can still see the confusion and fear in your eyes. It’s seems to be clouding a swirling scream of innocence. That is why I’m here old friend. I have an idea, a little dubious plan; if you choose to accept it. I will still take your eyes, as there must be proof of an “execution”, but I can put a little curse in their place.. It’s risky… but I don’t want you dead, Author.” Mark gave him a weak smile, before casting his gaze at the twins. “Twins, I trust you’ll speak nothing of this. After all, it was your idea.” They giggled and nodded in unison. They didn’t want to lose their brother forever either. Author glanced at them all, hope sparkling. _

 

_ “Mark… I accept the deal.” Author responded, bowing as low as he was able. He was grateful, even if there was death either way. Mark’s face lit up with a dazzling smile, as that was first and only time Author had called him by name. The deity took a deep breath, however, there was a job to do.  _

 

_ “I’m truly sorry for this.” He whispered before digging his fingers into the Author’s eyes, the Jims holding his body in place. The Author screamed, pain a lightning bolt through his veins, frying his nerves. Mark’s heart was heavy.. He was disgusted with the unholy actions that were forced upon him. Eyes removed with a sickening squelch, Author gasped. Shock over taking his system, he was lucky to hear the Deity and his brothers as the chains were removed…   _

 

_ “The curse will be in effect after the fall, Author. You are still partly an angel, but your wings are tattered. And one day, we hope you’ll be able to return…” The words echoed, before he fainted. _

 

_ They tossed him from the edge. _

 

_ ///// _

 

_ The descent was like fire, endless, empty, black, and scorching. His throat was torn to shreds, no longer able to scream. It felt like hours, maybe it was only seconds. When the ground came up to meet him, his wings strained to soften him at last second, yet in their state; they couldn’t do much. He smacked into thick stone steps with a sharp crack resonating in the air. Loose feathers fluttering around himself, Author didn’t have warning as the Deity’s Curse took root, the shock of Sight, true Sight…  Slumped against the paved stone, he willed his wings to hide themselves, and lie in a boneless heap, sobbing.  _

 

_ The world around him was still dark with early morning; cold. His Sight had returned, but in a way he had never expected. A trembling hand, raised to his face, finding rivers of warm blood dripping from empty sockets. It was then the doors behind him swung open, a nun and a priest, he was still overwhelmed by how much he could see, appalled. The nun gasped and rushed to help him, it was instinct to assist the wounded. The priest grimaced; the blood pooling on the stones, yet curiosity overtook as he picked up a feather. They lie littered over the ground, and dusting Author, sticky with blood. _

 

_ “Sister, take this man inside, he needs assistance… I’ll call another to clean this mess.” The Sister only nodded in return, helping Author onto unsteady feet. He stumbled as if truly blinded, him being in shock to everything that had happened. He was still processing. The Sister lead through many winding halls, one way to the next. After tying a cloth against his eyes to catch the blood, she didn't need them dripping inside as well. Opening a door, she had him sit, and then she began to wash the blood from his face and hands. Disinfecting the wounds stung the worst near his eyes, but he was still grateful. He was alive. _

 

_ “Do you have a name?” Her voice startled him. “Sorry, you don't have to speak if you don't want to!” She rushed. It was then he had a revelation, the Author, was dead. Who was he? He thought for only a moment and the answer became clear, like the sun after rain. _

 

_ “Host. His name is the Host.” He slipped into third person without notice, it was comfortable, and sat well with him. He later found that the narration of things around him helped build a crystal clear image, without fuzz at the edges. _

 

_ Host rested for the next few days, maybe weeks, as he couldn’t tell. In and out of sleep, small wounds healing; yet never his eyes. He took comfort in wearing bandages against the emptiness he found there. He dreamed of home often, how he missed it. Yet, he knew he couldn’t return, not until he could prove his innocence.  _

 

_ ///// _

 

_ “Come with me, Host. We can't have you wandering without assistance.” The priest had returned one morning, leading Host through the halls and up flights of stairs. He stopped at a door and swung it open, revealing a small, study-like room. _

 

_ “This is where you’ll stay. The church welcomes you to stay for as long as you need. There’s fresh clothing in the drawers, the Sisters put in lots of styles, so you’d be comfortable. This is for you as well…” The priest guided Host to a cane leaning beside the door.  _

 

_ “Now, the Host can walk around without taking up the other church-goers’ time. The Host thanks you. Yet, he’ll still be sure to ask for assistance if he ever needs to.” Host pulled a rare small smile. Then he was left to his new space, quietly as he narrated to himself. It was odd, but it somehow had became a habit. Curiosity pulled him to a small mirror; he hadn't looked at his reflection yet. He’d been too afraid to. The being staring back had the build and grace of the Author, but it oddly seemed more like just a host, an empty vessel. Bandaged hands slowly pushed curling unkempt hair back, revealing what he’d thought to be a trick of the light to be a soft blonde streak. Standing out strongly against his dark auburn hair, he wondered how it had happened, where it came from. He chose to ignore it for the time being. Digging through the clothing given to him, He found something he’d be happy with, then parted from the lightly tattered cloth of heaven. He added a priest’s overcoat to his choices, and smiled. Returning to the mirror, comb in hand, the one who looked back was only “Host”.  _

 

_ “The Author is dead,” As the Host reconfirms aloud to himself again. “Taking comfort in the thought.” He narrated at a mumble, pulling his hair into neat rows. He plucked his cane from its resting place, deciding that he’d tie the rosary beads he found to it. Work finished--for now--he set about to wander the church and build a mental map for future reference.  _

 

_ ///// _

 

_ Weeks passed in this fashion, Host wandering the halls like a ghost and occasionally helping here and there. It was February already, and Host missed home severely. It would be his day of creation soon, he wondered what his brothers were doing, and how the Celestials were fairing. Using the key to the archives he’d gained, he plopped into a chair nestled deep within the shelves filled with paper and ink. Small sobs hiccupping through choked air, his crimson tears soaking his face and hands. The clack of nails on hardwood was sharp in his ears, he’d know that sound anywhere. But, it couldn't be. Could it?  _

_ Chica padded out from around a shelf with a practiced grace, seeming to beam up at Host. A case sat in her jaws, which she set down softly and gingerly nudged toward Host, who slipped from the chair and crawled over to see what she’d brought to him. He slipped slightly, dizzy from so many tears, but he steadied. His Sight revealed his beloved typewriter, and a letter. Tears gathering once more, he opened the case, fingers brushing lightly over braille keys. He found the letter contained a short message: “ _ **_A SMALL GIFT FOR A DEAR FRIEND.”_ ** _ It was signed with a pawprint; it was from Chica herself then. The tears were flowing again, a soft thank you spilling from the Host’s lips, and Chica pushed into his lap. Her version of a hug, as she didn’t seem to mind when he wrapped his arms around her, face buried in soft fur as he cried. She huffed lightly at the warm red staining her fur afterward, yet it simply flaked off moments later, her being as pristine as when she arrived. The Host gave her a fond smile and laughed at how childish he’d acted, wiping the remaining tears from his cheeks. Then she disappeared, just like she always did. But, her visit had lifted the veil of sadness weighing on his heart immensely. It seemed he would always be grateful for something at this rate. _

 

_ ///// _

 

Jim sat in a stunned silence, as the Host’s voice faded from his ears. Before himself sat a creature, cast out, broken, hidden. Host let Jim stew in his thoughts as he moved over to a wall near his desk, pulling a book from the shelf. He pulled a pristine letter from within its pages.

 

“She still visits the Host sometimes, it gives Host the courage and hope to move forward.” He told Jim, unfolding the letter from Chica. Host recognized the scrawled script as the Deity’s penmanship; Chica likely begged him, Mark being unable to refuse. 

 

“So, you’re really a Seraph?” Jim asked shakily. He was unsure what to think of Host’s tale so far.

 

“The Author was…   _ The Host, _ is merely the vessel of a celestial soul, the teller of stories. He is unsure as to what he is anymore, but something tells him he is a Nephilim. Created, not born.” Host shrugged. “He also knows Host wishes to return home, one day, or so he dreams.”

 

“We could help with that!” Host whipped around in shock at the voice, or rather, voices speaking in unison.

 

The Twins and Chica stood before him.

 

**.:TO BE CONTINUED IN PART TWO:.**

**Author's Note:**

> I'm happy to announce the full release of Part One! Part two is underway.  
> Here is my tumblr for artwork and updates!  
> https://www.tumblr.com/blog/draltoclef


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